Silhouette
by Jack Rafferty
Summary: Everything happens for a reason... or does it? And sometimes, things don't work out the way you'd thought they would, a silhouette lie. Mostly AU.
1. Abolition

**A/N:** Experimenting just a bit, not exactly sure how it will go over. The story takes place in college, but more present day; everything should hopefully explain itself. Certain Thrice songs set the tone for this like "Silhouette," but also "The Abolition of Man" for this chapter. Actually, each chapter kind of comprises a song on a fictional band's album.

So that it's clear, I don't own anything (a given) and credit where it's due, please don't sue. Anyways, Enjoy and, of course, review. Constructive criticism also works well.

**…**

**Silhouette**

"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated."  
–Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)

**…**

It feels almost clichéd to start off the bat with a quote or two. In this case, I'm going to assume it works.

So, I hear the shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. Pardon the language, but what a pile of steaming shit. In a sense, it, well, makes _sense_, but placed in a different context, life is almost never that simple or that straightforward, is it?

Then again, I'm not boasting about my life being all that complicated either. If anything, it is _far_ from that.

I probably should clarify a few couple before we begin:

The first, this isn't one of those stories where the twist turns out to be that I've been dead and telling the story posthumously similar to that of _The Sixth Sense_. I'm also going to go ahead and rule out purgatory considering I'm not deceased. Of course, one could also argue going through life, in itself, is purgatory.

And the second sounds somewhat "pompous," but how things are arranged and the titles might have some significance attached to them. There is a reason for it. For instance, the _first_ letter (not necessarily in order) of the first few chapters' titles will eventually reveal an identity.

On with the story, shall we…

(…oh, and if I've ruined the aforementioned movie for you, get over it. It's been long enough.)

**…**

Abolition

…on the ground, he stirred from unconsciousness before slowly standing on his two feet. Groggily, he stumbled around his surroundings covered in blood. Vision slightly and temporarily clouded.

"What the…" he grumbled to himself, dabbing at the fresh swollen gash above his left eye. The scenery felt familiar;oneof the last things seen before blacking out.

The stench roamed faintly but every bit as repugnant, enough to make him gag. The further he went the stronger and concentrated the scent.

There, he staggered upon laid a decaying corpse, a morbid sight. A bullet hole punctured through the victim, shot at point-blank range from what appeared to be a nine millimeter gun… not that he was some firearms expert. Dried up tears had rolled down her porcelain skin.

The pieces (chunks, really) of human flesh, brain and hair plastered about the alley's brick walls.

His eyes started to well up. The hot and stinging tears careened down his face without much restraint, sloshing down the crisp cold air onto the wet pavement. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his jacket, but to no avail.

This innocent woman murdered.

At best, she would be a national news story, the murderer brought to justice and almost everything would go back to "normal".

At worst, she would be nothing more than another statistic, an unsolved crime or some other pessimistic slogan you could attach to it.

_The sick fucker should've finished them both off_, he screamed a silent scream when those words simply would not come out.

Reality set itself in, comfortable and smug.

He wanted to punch someone, something.

As his knuckles met the nearest wall, there were no formal introductions or greetings exchanged. Obviously, the inanimate latter prevailed. And now, as if things couldn't get any better, bloodied knuckles in the process.

He restrained yet another scream, balling his hand into a fist while blowing on another wound. The frigid weather could not offer him any help or sympathy either. It wasn't the most rational of his actions, but who would be thinking rationally?

Right now, that was the farthest thing from his mind.

**…**

He resisted the urge to light the cigarette perched securely between his lips, a "disgusting" habit he had picked up a few years ago. Flicking the lighter open then closing it, his final attempts at "remaining cold turkey" were futile… and eventually, lost out.

As the smoke moved its way to the back of his throat, he exhaled. Its filthy warmth temporarily offered a comfortable solace and cloak. It hung there indolently like a cheap hooker or one of the countless groupies throwing themselves at him or his friends after playing one of their sets.

He scribbled chicken scratch into the spiral-bound notebook, its cover torn a bit.

He handed off the cigarette to an ashtray, dabbing off its ashes. He poured from a bottle of whiskey within proximity into a shot-glass and a can of cola clutched in the other hand, downing a couple shots of both.

"…testing my will," he recited monotonously. "They leave me broken and bruised and bleeding."

He thought he should visit his family. Forget it, he never could muster enough courage or drive to visit them. He could always rely on his number one excuse: he was busy.

It wasn't like he was lying.

Technically, he was busy. Their band had a full-length album, their first on a major industry label, set to begin recording in January. The band had been stoked about since being signed on. The album itself was estimated for a late fall or early winter release.

Other than graduating from college this upcoming semester, music consumed most of his life. It was one of the few things keeping him sane. Well, it was the least-destructive thing keeping him sane anyways.

For the most part, he had been one of the constants of the band.

The band underwent several changes from its name to lyrics and influences to band members, the humble beginnings in his parents' basement to lining up shows at skate parks and recreation centers to winning a couple "Battle of the Bands" competitions to recording a couple demos and EPs.

He had witnessed all the arguments or quarrels accompanying some of the band changes, the thrill and adrenaline rush of playing on stage as audiences sang, swayed and thrashed to their songs. And yet, absolutely none of that could compare to what was happening right now, in the present.

The band was now venturing into uncharted waters.

Of course, it helped that they were being hyped as the best New York band in recent memory by a well respected publication. It eased the transition from indie status to possible stardom. Their passionate sound mixed with the atypically raw lyrics separated themselves from the ridiculously formulaic genre of bands currently plaguing the mainstream.

**…**

Bittersweet reverie set his thoughts and conscious ablaze, broken by his cell phone vibrating on the makeshift table before blaring out some obnoxious ring-tone.

He lowered the television to its lowest setting, forgetting what he was watching to begin with.

"…the hell, man," a drunken man slurred loudly with several voices chattering and other noise amidst the background. "Anyways, keg party at Missy's, you up for it? There's like five or six of 'em."

"Yeah, definitely," he responded, grabbing his keys and coat. "I'll be there in thirty, Gandalf."

**…**

I'm giving you a couple pieces of discernible information for now.

Mike "Gandalf" Ganderson: a college roommate, one of my best friends and the drummer of our quaint little band. And if you ask me, he is undoubtedly the best at what he does.


	2. Crucible

**A/N:** The two songs used for this chapter are "Deadbolt" and "The Beltsville Crucible," both by Thrice because they're awesome. You can find the link to the entire lyrics on my profile. Reviews are always awesome, keep 'em coming (constructive criticism welcomed too)…

Crucible

"…damn it, Will. If this is going to be our last rally at Lincoln, we might as well make it memorable and bring our A-game," he barked.

"Relax, I think I have more fingers and toes than we have fans," Will exaggerated. "It's pointless since we don't exactly _belong_ in the popular cliques."

"Still, I think it'd be a solid send-off before heading off to college. Besides, it'd be cool to debut this new song for the EP."

"Whatev, man..."

"Alright from the top," he instructed to the band in general, tuning his guitar to drop D. He watched the slightly pudgy man twirl the drumstick between his fingers. Also, he noticed his friend and lead guitarist, Jeremy, translating some Thai to Takaka, the bass player. He counted off, "1, 2, 3…"

And on cue, Will and Jeremy began trading musical "jabs" on the drums and guitar, respectively, with such vigor and ferocity as though they were double-edged swords, battling yet also complementing each other…

The curly-headed lead singer belted out,

"When deadbolts awake you from déjà vu dreams,  
Four in the morning you know where I'll be.  
Out running red lights asleep at the wheel.  
The sirens feed my nightmares.

I just close my eyes and I'm already here  
It's already too late.  
I know it's nothing but lies,  
But they sound so sincere.  
I find them too hard to hate…"

"Ross!" his chubby sister yelled, annoyed and winded from running down the stairs to the basement. "Dad doesn't want you guys playing so loud."

…

Everybody goes through some trying times in their lives.

If they say they haven't, they're probably lying through their teeth about it. And I mean that in the sincerest way possible. For some, they occur more frequently or take longer than others; however, in the end, what matters most is how you persevere through those times.

In hindsight, I suppose it's a good thing I voluntarily stepped down from lead singer _and_ lead guitarist to, well, just the lead guitarist. I came pretty close to monopolizing the band and being a damn dictator, which isn't to say that I'm _not_… at times. Still, it was hard losing all the members' just months apart from each other.

Anyways, Jeremy left the band when he joined the Armed Services after graduating Lincoln.

And without him, Will and I decided to "phase out" Takaka, who left for Thailand soon after anyways. Last I heard, "Germs" was pretty peeved off about that. Soon enough, the band was flat lining when Will got accepted to University of Arizona. Will and I are still pretty good friends even though we haven't kept in contact much.

I think whatever happened then pretty much fails in comparison to what could've been…

_We, the jury, find the defendant, Ross Geller, not guilty of first- and second-degree murder…_

After those words were uttered, everything else turned into garbled gibberish. Two words, in its simplicity, differentiated freedom from incarceration or life from death. I'd be lying if I said I merely felt "relieved". At that moment, I knew exactly what it felt like to be O.J. except that we _all_ know that he did it.

Of course, the prosecution presented mostly "he said, she said" evidence when there were barely witnesses. Hell, I might have been the _only_ witness and therefore, by faulty reasoning, I was the only "suspect". Even though, I was unconscious for most of the incident.

I guess it's because someone needed to assign the blame on someone else, so they could paint them in an unflattering and biased manner. Character assassination, if you will. Ask Scott Peterson, except we know he did it too. It works in every aspect of the media, even celebrities. Still, I feel bad about the whole thing; even making light of the whole thing still hurts, especially since Idon't knowwhat happened that night.

…

Even a couple blocks from Missy's dorm, Ross could already hear the music blaring. As he crept closer towards his destination, he could see clouds of smoke wafting out the windows, the scent of weed crept along with it.

Entering the building, he pressed the "up" button, which opened promptly and pushed "3". The noise became louder, somewhat deafening his senses. He chuckled at the recognition of the song from the demo their band had given her three years prior.

3W.

"Ross, so glad you could make it," Missy smiled back at him. "Keg's in the back."

"So, the 'air quotes' aren't so funny now, eh?" he taunted, using them to emphasize his point.

"Well, in my defense," she replied. "You guys were going by the name Way/No Way then."

Conceding to her point, a "true" was all he could muster. "So, what's up with you and Chandler? You know those vocals could be our tickets to fame."

"Well…" she blushed while evading the issue, "he's _alright_."

"I'm just messing with you. I'll be out back if you need anything..."

On his way to the keg, Ross tiptoed over a few of the passed out locals, completely obliterated from the alcohol. It was your typical college gathering: several plastic red cups scattered on the floor. Some of the cups contained tiny amounts of alcohol while others had roach clips and ashes from the joints. There were also bottles and containers of every kind: half-empty 40-ounce and hard liquor bottles, flasks, emptied two-liter soda bottles, crushed cans of beer, etc.

He spotted the three most reliable people across the dorm near the silver barrels while pumping the tap as the yellowish brown liquid poured into their cups.

"About _fucking_ time, Geller," the dirty-blond haired fellow emphasized, wearing a navy blue zip-up hooded sweatshirt with "New York" emblazed in white on the front.

"Already a _little_ tipsy there, Mike?" he divulged.

"Hey man," the slightly shorter blue-eyed individual spoke, pulling a cigarette from the carton.

"Chandler," he nodded his head in acknowledgement, removing the folded pieces of paper from his pocket. "So, I finished writing the last two songs down."

"Great, let's see them," he said skimming through the lyrics. "Sound good, but I also scored us a 'gig' in front of the Asian Student Union as a bookend to where we started. Plus, it'd help us plug the album."

"We haven't recorded it yet though."

"It's not until after we start recording," Mike chimed. "Besides, it doesn't mean we can't shamelessly promote it? And get new fans stoked about it."

"Why not," Ross resigned.

…

She complimented, "Nice set you guys had up there."

The faint sound of hip-hop music played in the background of the club.

"Thanks, I'm Ross. And you?" Ross replied, handing her a drink.

"Does it matter?" the girl retorted. "You're probably going to forget about me anyways. I'm just another groupie to you."

"Well, if that's true, then you're, uh," he hesitated, "the most beautiful groupie I know.I've seen you, um, around on campus, so…"

She smiled, "Not _too_ smooth, but I like."

He chuckled, "So, if you're not going to tell me your name, where you from?"

"I'm from Berkeley, California. I mean the Bay Area was great and all, but moved here because I love the big city and fast-paced environment that New York has to offer."

"Ah, valid point," he countered. "I've lived most of my life in New York, gets dull sometimes, which is why going to different cities playing music can be fun…"

"So, this music thing, you think it'll last?"

"I mean, I hope so. Then again, I'm no fortune teller," he joked, "which is why I have paleontology to fall back on, you?"

"Well, I've been back and forth between several things," she stopped, noticing how he grasped onto every word she was saying as though they were her last, "b-but…"

She couldn't get her last sentence out as he pierced his lips up against her lips, dropping the glass she had been holding. And to his surprise, she responded and was every bit as into it as he was.

"W-wait, you have a..."

"Yeah, I'm like the battery, I'm Eveready... what?" he joked.

…

The band had a decent turnout of about a hundred fifty, maybe even two hundred. They played a good portion of the songs from the EPs and a handful from the new album.

"I don't know how many of you followed the band through the years," Chandler spoke rhetorically, "but we're finishing off with this song.It's going to beone of the songs on the album we're recording."

The lead crooned,

"True friends stab you in the front,  
Keep you from getting what you want  
When one more fix could kill you.  
They help you realize that you're  
More and less than you first had believed…"

Chandler's vocals blended in and flowed well with the drums, strumming in eighth note triplets and also, harmonizing with riffs and power chords.

"3000 miles just to learn  
All that's gold does not all shine.  
And helping words aren't always kind  
When one more kiss could kill you…"

Chandler went into the interlude, taking a sip from the bottled water as Ross went into his solo while Mike chipped in with drums in certain spots as the song culminated to a raging end.

"How to let my guard down,  
Accept the fire that has spread among us…"

…

He'd just finished up putting his guitar into the back seat of his truck.

"Monica," Ross called for his now slimmer sibling, "what are you doing here?"

She broke away from her boyfriend to chat with the elder Geller sibling.

"You can't even personally invite your sister to one of your 'gigs'," she answered, jokingly punching him in the arm. "And you're too good to visit family? Some Geller you are."

"Eh, didn't think it'd be 'your kind of music.' I'll probably visit them before the break's over, butI've been busy finishing getting this degree and working on the record," he diverted. "Besides, things have been _different_ since the trial. Anyways, how'd you find out?"

"Kip told me about it. Wow, I thought you guys sucked, but the band is… _somewhat_ good."

"Ha-ha," he mocked. "Still, I'm glad you made it. How _are_ mom and dad?"

"Yeah, it's definitely good to see my big bro again. You know they do believe you, that you didn't do it. But mom's still the same, giving me so much crap. I can't wait to finish this culinary thing and so I can move in with Nana. And dad, well, he's dad."

He felt relieved about his parents, yethe also hadn't completely approved of her relationship with Kip. However, he saw that she was happy and knew Kip wasn't an asshole, so he went along with it.

"So, the guys and I are going for some drinks. You can come if you want."

"I know, Kip told me about it. Of course, I'm coming."

_Great_, he thought. "Awesome..."


	3. Remember

Remember

Inside the studio, Ross wore huge headphones, playing the feedback of Kip and Chandler's session earlier in the day along with Mike's drumming. The boom mike cast over him, ready to record his frenetic riffs.

Although they had already recorded several songs in the last two weeks and were close to almost finished with the album, the whole process still felt surreal to all of them, particularly Ross. He pinched himself at least once a day to see if he were dreaming.

With the recording of Chandler's half-screaming vocals reverberating in Ross' eardrums, he played his part on his Gibson guitar with a pick and synchronizing with the lyrics,

"They are sick, they are poor  
And they die by the thousands and we look away.  
They are wolves at the door  
And they're not gonna move us or get in the way

'Cause we don't have the time  
Here at the top of the world  
Feeling alright  
Here at the top of the world…"

He continued in an intense manner. His fingers slightly tightened and cramped as they slid up and down the frets and neck of the guitar. He made it look gracefully hectic, but also, incredibly easy.

"Different god, darker skin  
They are just not a burden that we'd like to bear.  
They are living in 'sin'  
There are so many reasons for us not to care.

'Cause we don't have the time  
Here at the top of the world  
Feeling alright  
Here at the top of the world.

We've learned money matters most  
So we keep our cards closed  
Here at the top of the world…"

…

"So, what's the title of the album?" their manager pressed.

"Well, all four of us have a title we like, but don't which to use," Kip informed.

"Spit them out..."

"Mike wants Artist in the Ambulance. Ross likes Disorientation. Kip wants something oxymoronic like Sleeping with Insomnia while I like Euphoria," Chandler spilled the beans.

"They all sound good, but based on how the album sounds so far, I'd go with a combination like Euphoric Disorientation," the man said with a sense of neutrality, covering all the bases. "So, the sound engineers will get your songs mixed, spliced and whatever else that has and needs to be done. And at the earliest, it could be released before the end of the summer. You still need to submit the artwork for the cover and then you're done until the next album."

…

He placed a flyer on the already scattered bulletin, tucking the rest of the flyers between the crevice of his arm and side of his body. It read, "Looking for a bassist, guitarist and drummer to start up a punk rock or hardcore band. Interested? Contact Ross Geller at (631) 394-5542…"

"Times New Roman is better," he joked, startling the man. "Arial is just so plain."

Removing the headphones from his ears, Ross scanned him, slightly pessimistic due to his Members Only jacket and Flock of Seagulls haircut. Then again, he wasn't much to talk with the curly 'fro.

"You're _not_ checking me out, are you?"

"Ha, no," he articulated, "but you _do_ know the 80's died over a decade and a half ago?"

"Nice Chia pet you got going on there," he fired back. "How long it take you to grow?"

_Damn_, he'd already run out of ammunition, getting slightly irritated. "Yeah, well…"

"Eh, don't worry about it, masquerading insults as jokes is sort of my thing," he revealed as he extended his hand out for a handshake, "Chandler Bing."

The latter reluctantly accepted the gesture, rolling up the flyers into his left hand, "Ross Geller."

"Wait, _Bing_, is your mom…"

"Yeah, don't," he cut him off, "I know who she is. However, I do play the guitar. And I have a good friend who plays bass who I'd say he's pretty good. So if you're interested, I'm in."

"Of course," Ross declared, changing to a friendlier tone. "Dude, I'm not denying your talent, but you still need to addition. In the name of 'fairness,' you know?"

Chandler asked, "…this your first semester at NYU?"

"Yeah."

"_Cool_, at least there's one other freshman I know."

…

There were several calls, inquiring about the band and asking to have impromptu auditions. So, he'd picked up his electric guitar one weekend, and had people come into his dorm to showcase Ross what they had to offer. Some were really good, some were really bad and everyone else fit somewhere in between.

Thanksgiving break had come and the band hadn't been set, much to his disappointment. He'd heard some of Chandler's vocals after becoming roommates, so he was probably the only one officially in. Ross was definitely looking forward to coming home, being the slightest bit homesick. In the following weeks and months at NYU, he'd become really good friends with Chandler and Kip.

He decided to bringhis roommateover for the holiday since Chandler didn't really want to go home for undisclosed reasons. Kip told them they would meet up sometime during the weekend. That he would need to pick up his bass guitar.

"Wow, so have you guys played in a band before?" Ross inquired in the garage of his parents' home. Compared to some of the acts he had seen earlier, he was easily impressed from Kip and Chandler's audition. The latter's vocals floored Ross the most. It just _fit_ the style of music he'd envisioned for the band. While Ross' vocals were good, it came off slightly nasally and whiny. Andeven he had to admit that... _reluctantly_.

"Yeah, we played for a few years, but nothing too serious." Kip answered in a diplomatic fashion. "Heard of Anatomy of a Failure?"

"That was _you_ guys," he replied, fascinated.

"Yeah," Chandler said. "It gave us something worthwhile to do at that all-boy school. That and going to skate parks and, well, _skateboarding_…"

"So, Ross, we're you in a band?" Kip wondered.

"Yeah, but it was kind of small," he divulged, "The Velociraptors mostly because how we were so into dinosaurs. An old friend wanted to name it 'Hating Rachel', but it didn't stick."

Confused, they looked at him, "Anyways, now all we need is a drummer."

_Three down, one or two more to go_, he thought, thinking more optimistically.

…

"I can't go to my own prom without a date," the brunette claimed, "I can't. It's too late."

"If you're not going then I don't want to go," his pudgy sister replied.

A sense of desperation filled the air. With senior prom being the culmination of high school, she was practically in tears at the thought of not being able to go.

"Oh, I'm gonna to kick Chip's ass," Monica's date mumbled.

Indifferent, he played the theme from the _Beverly Hills Cop_ on his keyboard by the stairs listening to all the events transpiring. Other than being her best friend's brother, she never thought much of him anyway.

…then came the chiming of the light bulb.

"I have a wonderful idea," his mother suggested to her elder (and favorite) child. "You should take Rachel to the prom."

"Doubtful," he replied, panicking at the 'indecent' proposal.

There was a lot of back and forth between both parties while Monica did her best to comfort Rachel, oblivious. Sure, Rachel _had_ been the girl of his dreams at one point, but he continually convinced himself he was over her. And after buying into the same rhetoric again and again, he felt he was over her. However, all those feelings seemed to rush to the forefront…

"I can't believe I don't get to go to my own prom," the homecoming queen droned on rather dramatically. "This is so harsh."

This was the trigger. Having missed his own prom just last year, he knew all too well the feeling of missing out on the "most prestigious" high school event. Of course, he wasn't nearly half as popular as her, so the effect wasn't on the same grandeur. Finally, he yielded to their requests…

_It might be fun_, he thought, handing his father the keyboard like a baton. "Okay, hold my board."

"Atta boy," his father exclaimed.

He quickly undressed out of his khakis and short-sleeved shirt. Somewhat excited about aspect of "going to prom," it rejuvenated what feelings he had for her. Butterflies floating in his stomach, he rushed to get the pants, shirt, cummerbund and jacket on. It had been a rush that could only compare to performing in front of an audience, large or small.

"C'mon kid, let's go," his dad directed.

Judy gleamed, "Ah, are you handsome."

"Let's show 'em."

"Uh, just a sec dad," he dawdled nervously, "Okay, be cool, just be cool…"

Growing infinitely confident by the second, he improvised by grabbing the bouquet of roses in the vase, "Okay, dad…"

"Rachel here come your knight in shining…" Jack declared, then hesitated, "oh no."

"Bye," the quartet chirped in unison, rushing towards the limousine their parents helped pay for.

The formerly shattered prom queen was now hopeful, bursting to get into the limousine and experience the event most teenagers waited four years for.

He should've seen it coming, but still he allowed his hopes to get high only to come crashing back down to reality. He knew it was a dumb idea and he wanted curse his parents up and down. It'd get him nowhere though. He felt like regurgitating those approving words he'd said that laid at the back of his throat. Now, he had to pick up whatever was left of his heart off the floor.

He ran up to his room, slammed the door shut. He wanted to cry. And although, she hadn't rejected him directly, it stung like hell. Grabbing a random black spiral-bound notebook from the second drawer, he began writing on the first sheet of paper.

…

"I hear you're looking for a drummer," the guy asked. "Joey, I'm from Queens."

Fortunately, Kip still had and was able to load the drums from his and Chandler's old band onto his truck, storing it in their homes. The Gellers' basement had become the temporary home of Way/No Way.

Kip tossed him a pair of drumsticks, "Show us what you got, Joey."

Joey played. Nerves and anxiety got the best of him, causing him to play off-key but was able to finish the song strongly.

"Not bad," Chandler noted, no longer sporting the Seagulls hair and more of a shaved buzz cut, "But thank you."

An hour and few breaks or so later, they had seen a handful of drummers and none of them had really blown them away.

"I'm grabbing myself a beer," Kip announced.

"Yeah, I'm going for a quick smoke," Chandler chimed. "You want a cig, Geller?"

"Nah, I'm good, Chandler," he turned down. "I _don't_ smoke."

"So, the second to last one was really good, yeah?" Kip recalled, "Mike Gander-_something_."

Chandler added, "Yeah, he had a lot of confidence about it too, can never have enough of that."

"I think I've seen him in an anthology class," Ross remembered, having replaced the 'fro with shorter, spiky gelled hair.

"He seems cool, plus I guess it'd be easier if we all are at the same school. Other than Kip and maybe Mike working, we wouldn't have to deal so much with schedules and traveling."

"Well, call up Mike and tell him he's in," Ross suggested.

The band was settled and before the semester was over, yet now came the harder part: writing songs and getting _everything_ to gel.

…

There it was, the _finished_ product: months of hard work, sweat and empty bottles of booze from playing shows in different cities contained in a single plastic disc. They towered over it like a parent would over a newborn child.

"Man, I'm glad the album's going to be out in a month, but I am _fucking_ beat," Mike decreed (and the other three nodded wordlessly, too exhausted to express it), pouring a bottle of SKYY in one hand into a shot glass.

They'd been on the road if not every day, every other day. Their record label had upgraded them from a couple of vans to a slightly bigger tour bus, equipped with practically everything. They'd been down and then up the east coast the past month and a half.

"Seriously," Ross clamored. "One more show to go; fortunately, it's a smaller venue, the opening of Central Perk. It's supposedly outdoors and we're the only ones playing though, so that's good."

"Damn, it's like 95-plus degrees outside," Kip said, sitting around on one of the plush chairs of the air-conditionedbus.

Chandler picked up the small flyer, "It's tonight though, so it'll hopefully have cooled by then."

A few hours later, the guys had changed into fresh clothing. The stars dimly lit the place, creating an intimate atmosphere. They prepped inside the actual shop, what appeared to be a coffee shop.

They remembered playing here before when back when it was a bar. Mike loosened up, twirling the drumsticks and tapping them gently on one of the tables metrically to the beat of the music he was listening to.

…

Terry, the owner of Central Perk, introduced the band, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's a huge honor to welcome one of New York's finest, The Switchblades."

They drew a warm ovation of about a couple hundred or so, which had temporarily shut down traffic on that block. The feeling still gave them a slight case of the goose-bumps. After all, it was one thing to play in other cities, but in front of your home town and state, it was even more special.

"Good evening, Manhattan!" Chandler yelled while adjusting the microphone, placing earplugs in each of his ears. He had on a light blue shirt that contained the phrase, "There's only one good bush" (ironically, a gift a female fan had given him after a show in Jacksonville, Florida). In any case, the shirt brought out his eyes and fair skin.

Ross tuned his guitar and adjusted the volume of the amp, wearing a light green shirt of another band they had become friends with. He took a couple sips of water to prevent dehydration.

"We have a new album in stores on August 29. We're also featured on the cover _Alternative Press_ and there's a neat little interview." Chandler continued to speak. "Anyways, this first song you've probably heard on the radio. It's loosely based off some of C.S. Lewis' work. It goes a little something like this…"

Mike rhythmically laid down drum beats while Chandler chimed in with power chords,

"Wake up everyone! It's not too late  
To save the remnants of our hearts,  
So stop giving up our last shot at love,  
Our only chance to find the meaning of  
The beat beneath the blood,"

Ross threw down some wild and furious riffs to compliment Mike's drumming,

"We laugh at honor and are shocked when  
We find the knives in our backs.  
We follow those who cheat and steal.  
Look in my eyes, you won't find your way back.  
Our only compass smashed under our own heels

Reason abandoned to appetites and addicts arms  
Shotguns and silence have been the best of charms…"

At this point, Mike slightly "outplayed" Ross musically, but that only drove him to play even louder and more frenzied throughout the rest of the song...

They played four more songs,allbut onefrom the brand new album. With each song, the crowd continued to respond vigorously to their energy by twofold. Wiping the sweat dripping down with a towel, Chandler gulped water and tossed the rest of it towards the audience, somewhat spraying them with it.

"Was that good for you like it was good for me? _Damn_, I need a cigarette," he joked. "Anyways, we're going to slow things down a bit. This was one of the first songs I wrote when I joined the band. You may know the Greek mythology behind it…"

Ross and Mike started things off. A little bit later, Kip added some bass to the song and Chandler input his vocals,

"I've waited for this moment  
All my life and more  
And now I see so clearly  
What I could not see before.  
The time is now or never.  
And this chance won't come again.  
Throw caution into the wind.

There's no promise of safety with these secondhand wings,  
But I'm willing to find out what impossible means.  
A leap of faith…"

A brief interlude with mostly Kip playing in the background, Chandler continued,

"Parody of an angel,  
Miles above the sea  
I hear the voice of reason  
Screaming out to me  
'You've flown far too high boy now you're too close to the sun  
Soon you're makeshift wings will come undone'  
But how will I know limits from lies if I never try?"

Chandler repeated the chorus, but added a little,

"There's no promise of safety with these secondhand wings,  
But I'm willing to find out what impossible means.  
I'll climb through the heavens on feathers and dreams  
'Cause the melting point of wax means nothing to me  
Nothing to me  
Nothing to me..."

Ross and Mike continued to play their respective instruments,

"I will touch the sun or I will die trying,  
Die trying  
Fly on these secondhand wings  
Willing to find out what impossible means  
I'll climb through the heavens on feathers and dreams  
'Cause the melting point of wax means nothing to me  
Nothing to me  
Means nothing to me,  
Miles above the sea."

He slowly finished, enunciating the final eight words to add emphasis, "Thank you."

Mike hurled his pair of drumsticks towards the audience as mementos while Ross and Kip each threw a few picks.

The lights turned off, allowing the band to exit the stage and head inside. There were several chants for an encore or one more song. For the most part, they had the crowd eating out of the palm of their hands, which left the same effect on the audiences from all the other stops, one of the marks of a solid musician and performer.

…

Terry congratulated the foursome on a solid show and wishing them well.

"My throat," Chandler said hoarsely, "is _fucking_ shot."

"Hey guys," Monica blurted before perching herself on her boyfriend's lap, "Really good show tonight."

Ross pointed at the general vicinity near the counter, "I need something to drink."

"This place is kind of cool," Chandler noted. "Mon, do you know if the apartment next to your grandmothers' up for rent? Kip and I are looking for a place to crash after graduation."

"Not sure, but I'll check for you."

Ross was observing the quaint establishment and furnishings, accidentally bumping into an all too familiar face he'd seen before. The slight collision caused to her drop the coffee mugs, sending them crashing to the ground.

"Oh, sorry," he nervously sputtered. "It was my fault."

"Damn right, it was," she muttered angrily. "Those are coming out of _my_ paycheck."

He was too distracted, still trying to spot where he'd seen her before.

"…you there?" the voice asked, snapping him from his little trance. She reiterated, "Hello?"

"Yeah, I'll cover it, don't worry."

"_Right_," she growled, snippy. "I've got to get back to work…"

_What a bitch_, he thought but disbelief still punched him in the gut, leaving him winded, "R-Rachel Green?"

The mention of her name caught her dead in her tracks, "How- how did you know that?"

"Just a guess," he said casually, feeling like he had the upper hand neatly tucked away in his back pocket.

"Well, it is Rachel Matthews now," she corrected, "but seriously, how'd you know my name?"

"W-we used to go to school together, Lincoln High?" he reasoned. "You were my sister's best friend?"

"Really, wait," she paused, taking a moment for all of it in. "…Ross?"

He seemed baffled by both the length it took and her inability to remember him, had he been _that_ transparent to her? Sure, she'd simply known of him as Monica's older brother, but seemingly, to completely forget?

"So, that was _your_ band performing tonight?"

"Well, there's _also_ three others involved."

"Not bad," she acknowledged.

"Thanks, so what're you doing here?"

"Well, my hubby's on a football scholarship at a community college for now. And I'm working here to help pay off rent while trying to get an internship in the fashion industry."

He didn't want to pry too deeply, "Sounds like you've kept yourself busy..."

"Well, whatever it takes to get you 'prepared for the real world', right?"

"Yeah, anyways, it was good seeing you, but I've got to get back to the dorms," he concluded, watching as his friends and sister were taking off.

"Geller, is your ass coming or not?" Mike spoke, a notch below an actual scream. Ross scrambled over to the door, panting. "Party at the casa, eh?"

"'Sup Janine," he said, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend. "I'm _there_."

…

**A/N:** Lyrics in this chapter are Thrice's "Cold Cash…," "Abolition of Man" and "Melting Point of Wax." It isn't crucial to hear the songs since the lyrics are the crux (although the introduction to and piano playing at the end of "Deadbolt" are, IMO, all kinds of awesome). Reviews are always welcome, and I'm a groupie for those…


	4. Once

Once

He held her corpse firmly in his arms. Blood trickled a little, down her forehead and onto his hands as he knelt down on the cement. Her body was past the rigor mortis phase. He softly brushed her long hair, hoping her head wouldn't cave inward from the puncture wound.

He faintly cried now, barely above a whisper. He curled into this position for at least a couple hours now. His body becoming contortedly numb. Uncontrollably, his fresh tears splashed down onto her face, meshing with the dried ones that rolled down hers. His stomach churned from the repulsive stench from the inside out, but this was the least of his worries. He knew it wasn't the wisest idea to be holding a corpse, but he didn't care.

Dusk was almost on its way out, but it couldn't have been earlier than four in the morning.

His mind started to race laps, possibly a marathon. He knew he couldn't be caught here as no one would find his story remotely plausible or credible. Wouldn't his friends and other people question where they vanished off to that night, and eventually, the length of her disappearance? His first instinct and thought were to run, but where?

Finally, he zipped up his jacket, running the first place he could think of.

--

I don't know about you, but the whole notion of soul-mate has been bastardized by television and Hollywood, particularly in the whole romantic comedy genre. While I do enjoy it from time to time; it's pure escapism at its finest. Seriously, if you want a guaranteed hit, stick a love plotline in there. One of those that start off where one person has feelings for the other, but the other isn't on the same wavelength.

Eventually, the scripts get flipped and the latter's pining for the former. In the end, it eventually all gets wrapped up with a cute little bow, the couple lives happily ever after. Furthermore, the more parties involved the more interesting, right? I call bullshit though.

However, my take is that your "soul-mate" doesn't necessarily mean your boyfriend or girlfriend or someone you're fucking. Hell, I'm not saying it couldn't be that; if it is, great but it could also your best friend, a relative, another friend or even an inanimate object. It is something that essentially understands you and completes who you are as a person, but that could just be my jaded ramblings…

--

"So, where are we playing tonight?" Ross quizzed his peers.

"_We_, my friends, are playing at the renowned Apollo Theaters," Kip answered bluntly.

"That is _right_, bitches!" Mike exclaimed, cheerily emphatic. "Can you believe this shit? If I had a vagina, I'd have multiple orgasms by now."

"Mike, it's okay," Kip joked. "We already know you have a vagina."

Ross' cell phone went off. It was _her_.

"Hey sweetie, are you coming to the show tonight?" Ross spoke on the phone with his girlfriend, enthused but the sudden change and tonality in his voice revealed otherwise. "You're working _again_, tonight? Can't you get someone else to cover your shift? Alright, I love you too…"

Out of respect, the three minded their business but continued their incessant chatter elsewhere, obviously still elated about playing somewhere they never imagined. They cared about their friend, but they didn't necessarily like he was heading in that relationship.

--

She informed him she would wait for him after the show outside the theater doors. And true to her word, she delivered on her promise.

They both decided it was best to put all their differences aside from earlier in the week. "Is that the purse I bought you for your birthday?"

"Yeah, it is," she smiled at the recollection. She had had her eye on it when they had gone window shopping several months back. He used his portion of the gig money to purchase it. And considering the look on her face after getting the gift, he would say it was money well spent.

They went for a walk in the blistering cold, not unusual for a December night in any part of New York. Contemplative, she rested her head on his broad shoulders and their arms intertwined. There was a peaceful but slightly unnatural silence between them. They both collectively began brewing in their minds.

Ross noticed that she started sniffling, at that moment where you're on the brink of crying. Also, she was a lot quieter than normal. He couldn't place his fingers on exactly why. He was getting tired of the current tension between them, "Honey, is something wrong? Did I do something?"

"No," she despondently responded as someone rudely brushed past them, splitting them apart. She went into her purse and grabbed some tissue as they continued to walk down the streets, seemingly heading nowhere in particular. He tried to reestablish and joined his arm in hers, but she didn't let him. She continued walking with him trying to catch up with her.

"Because if there is, just let me know," he said in an earnest and, for the first time, scared tone in his voice. "If _I_ did anything, I'm sorry. God, I love you so much it's ridiculous…"

Their bodies neared an alley when she came to a complete stop. She started crying again, this time more openly. In one swift motion, she pulled out the nine millimeter into her free hand. She spoke, her voice weak and feeble, "I'm sorry…"

"For what?" he said, fear running rampant in his blood from head to toe. His heart pumped nearly twice as fast as though it were going to burst from his chest.

_Thwhack_.

One might presume would be the sound of metal crashing against bone. It might not have been the biggest or fiercest blow but it did enough damage to leave him unconscious.

_Thud_.

The sound of a limp body crashing downwards to the pavement.

"I _really_ am, Ross," she said. Tears choked her up, causing her voice to crack.

"I'm sorry," she repeated again. She hoped the back of his consciousness would hear her admission, her confession. "None of this was ever your fault, so don't blame yourself. I don't think I've ever loved anyone as much as I loved you and, _that_, it scares the hell out of me…"

She began speaking incoherently, short of babbling. And although they had the phrase many times before between them, it had never felt more surreal or possibly poignant. She placed the gun just above her left ear, closed her eyes and as her finger began to slowly squeeze the trigger, she mumbled, "Ross, I _do_ love you."

_Bang_.

--

Ross woke up, drenched in a pile of sweat. He had had another nightmare, the second night in a row. He hadn't told anyone of these occurrences, chalking it up to sleep deprivation. The foursome had been busy, on location while filming a video for their single.

He stretched and yawned as he watched Chandler standing in front of a green screen. The band had collaborated on the entire concept for their video, each adding each of their spin and input. It began with Chandler getting in one of the many taxis to the subway station. While listening to his compact disc player, he began singing lyrics to a song.

His three companions would already be at the "subway" station performing, waiting for him. Chandler would get out of the taxi, paying less than the amount owed and the driver cursing the shit out of him. Unsympathetically, he would breeze past the homeless who were begging for change, but also, calmly people of different races and ethnicities, who rushed monotonously to get to their "9-to-5" jobs with their business suits.

Several minorities and lower-class people would cut in the line, causing the "suits" to yelling inaudible racial and derogatory slurs all the while still listening and singing the song. A brawl ensued. Thunder roared and lightning struck. It began raining, but instead of raindrops, it began raining vast sums of money and loose change and the huge crowd began scampering after the currency.

It would end with Chandler tossing the disc player at an oncoming train, while holding onto the microphone in front of him and singing the rest of the lyrics as it would fade out…

"Cut," the director yelled, "Good, Chandler."

--

Mike and Kip were watching the game as Chandler filmed his scenes. It was opening day for baseball, both of whom were huge Mets fans.

"Ah, come on Glavine," Mike yelled. "That's not what you're being paid to do…"

"Damn, Ross. You look like you've seen a ghost or something," Kip spoke worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm _fine_," he mentioned, desperately trying to act nonchalant. "I just didn't get enough sleep last night is all."

"You're going to be on the second leg of a fall tour as one of the opening acts, meaning you'll be playing several dates on the west," their manager came bursting in with great news, "Your album's doing pretty good on the Billboard charts. The record's sold a modest 52,000+ copies, but that _still_ exceeded the record label's expectations. It cracked the top 100 albums sold last week at #79."

"Any dates in California?" Ross pondered, delighted by the entire situation.

"You'll be playing at The Fillmore in San Francisco," he replied. "It's one of the more historic venues in the Bay Area; many established bands and comedians have played and gotten their start there."

"Hopefully, in a year or so, we'll be playing all the dates rather than just half or better yet headlining," Mike romanticized. With that, their manager left them to brew in their success. "This shit is going to be _crazy_."

"So, what's up Ross?" Chandler inquired from his best friend.

"I have lyrics written down for _whenever_," he replied, tossing him the folded up pieces of paper.

"Already?" he wondered, "Our album just released a couple months ago, man."

"It keeps me busy," Ross joked, "Like I've said, I'm insomnia's filthy whore."

"Come on, man. You've got to give me some credit; there's more to it than just a 'lack of sleep,'" he called out his friend.

"Alright, but you can't tell Mike or Kip, I'll be the one to do that, if ever that is," Ross asked him for that particular favor, "but I've been having nightmares lately… about _her_."

Chandler winced, knowing how the known parts of the scenario transpired, "I mean, it's been along time now since her death, but I still feel partly responsible. I feel like I've moved on too quickly and don't feel guilty about doing so…"

"Well, not to sound like an ass," he paused, "but I can't say I envy you. I can't imagine what you went through and wouldn't wish that on anyone else. However, maybe you still haven't fully had closure on the whole thing?"

"Maybe," the other concurred to the point. "I mean, I haven't even visited her grave… _once_. How shitty of an ex-boyfriend am I?"

"That's true, man," he conceded, "but it wasn't like she was 'girlfriend-of-the-year' material, either. I mean, she did some shady things too."

Ross nodded, "Thanks, man."

"I'll be on your side forever more," he sang mockingly. "Because that's what friends are for."

--

Sometimes things come earlier than expected. Births, deaths, and orgasms are probably some that come to the forefront even any particular relationship can come to an abrupt end.

As I've said before, bad shit will _always_ happen in life. If anything, that's every bit an inevitability as death. It can depend on how the law of averages either favors or fucks you over, but again, it doesn't matter how long it takes you to pull through as long as you weather those storms and how many of those storms you have. During the whole time, you find out who your true friends and family are, separate them from the fakes that are all in it for your cash, your fifteen minutes, your celebrity.

You could always end it selfishly by taking your own life, but affect the people around you. Or you could go on miserably, pretending everything is alright when your world could practically crumble on itself. I'm sure there's a middle ground between the two, but I haven't found it yet.

A few years ago, every time I looked at these pictures, I see "soul mate." I saw the one person I thought I could possibly spend forever with. Now, I see her for the conniving bitch she really was, but why couldn't I see it earlier? And maybe that's the thing about getting older; supposedly, you gain more wisdom and knowledge, tools to help you cope whenever things are shit. That's why you savor any quiet periods you can before the calms lead to the storms.

I don't know how many people would agree, but to be at peace _would_ be a sin, and surely "un-American". With the "wisdom" I've picked up, there is a method to its madness.

We demand salary increases because we aren't content with what we already have when, fucking trite and holier-than-thou as this whole thing sounds, there are people who don't have shit or next to nothing. We buy materialistic things to fill our egos, to prove that we're somehow superior to the next person. It's one of the reasons why we cheat, steal, lie and everything else in between – anything to reach the top, right? I've talked about this with Chandler, but he only agrees to an extent. I suppose it's all about perspective…

--

_Caroline Michelle Willick, 1980-2000 _was what the inscription on the tombstone simply read as he stood in front of it, _Wonderful daughter and sister_. He could barely contain the smirk at wonderful and her name juxtaposed in the same sentence.

As Chandler watched from a few feet or so ago, Ross played with the lighter's lid, watching the flame flicker and dissipate. He placed the cigarette in his mouth just minutes prior. He never had been much of a smoker before, but now, it was easier said than done to kick the habit. His body now went through shakes with long periods of nicotine withdrawal.

"I can't believe _you_ didn't tell me or why you didn't," his statement muffled by the cig on his lips, "So, finding out the hard way wasn't fun. Why couldn't you have just said _something_, huh?"

"I probably would have been a lot happier _and_ better off if we never met," he grabbed the white envelope from his back pocket, his name written in cursive on the front of it. "I'm addicted to these damn cigarettes, lost and continue to lose countless hours of sleep, blaming myself for everything and all the other shit and for what? Absolutely _nothing_, Carol…"

He firmly opened his lighter and lit the upper portion of the envelope on fire, watching it slowly disintegrate into ashes and floated onto the ground. As the top portion of the envelope started to caved inward, wads of cash began to crumble along with it. Its ashes floated in front of the tombstone.

_Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe,  
__Three thousand miles to learn, all that's gold does not all shine…_

"You should've kept those three thousand miles in your back pocket, 'hon'," he ranted reminiscing the time he had written those lyrics, getting angrier by the second, "Stayed the fuck in Berkeley."

Ross was practically hysterical at this point, almost breaking down to cry and squatted in front of the headstone. However, he couldn't bring himself to do so. It would've been the same as admitting defeat in front of her.

Chandler stood behind him, hand firmly resting on his shoulder, "It's okay, man."

He scorned, "I'm sure George and Adelaide are proud of you."

"Yeah," a familiar voice resonated. "I don't think they would be, Ross…"

--

**A/N:** The song being used for the "video" is "Cold Cash and Colder Hearts" and the lyrics are "Beltsville Crucible" again.


End file.
